The Immortal Game
by Empanoply
Summary: Sherlock is seven when he learns to play chess. AU, drabbles.
1. e4 e5

A/N: A series of drabbles, chess AU. They will probably be related and vaguely chronological. Feedback is appreciated!

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_1. e4 e5_

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Sherlock is seven when he learns to play chess.

He is following a particularly distinctive set of boot prints (all the way from Dorset Street; the thief is tall, smokes and limps) when he finds himself in a park with the knowledge that the trail has gone muddied and cold. In a fit of pique, he decides not to walk home.

He takes in his surroundings with an irritated glance - too many people, too many dogs and too few criminals. It'll be a few hours at least until Mycroft arrives to take him home, and after a quick glance at the security cameras, he settles himself down in the most concentrated visual field. This places him on a cool stone seat, directly next to a matching table occupied by two men. One of them glances up, offers a brief smile, and returns his gaze to a chessboard.

_Late-twenties_, Sherlock thinks automatically. _Married, wants children but has none._

The other is almost six feet tall and roughly the same age, but - Sherlock glances under table - no unusual footwear on either of them. A pity. If he was going to spend the next three hours loitering in the presence of two old men, he'd rather one of them be his criminal. He contemplates heading off into the fray of individuals and dogs for all of twenty seconds, but decides a petty thief is not worth his discomfort.

He watches the game, instead.

He spends fourteen minutes forming hypotheses on how the pieces move, but only because his source of data is slow in coming. It takes another nine minutes to satisfy his need for verification, then another five to adapt when the man makes two moves at once (_impossible, of course, so obviously this special occurrence is not two moves but one played in special circumstance; it is likely that my knowledge of other such special moves is incomplete; furthermore it is not even certain that this is not a variant of chess whereby other rules are followed_, and _this lack of data is utterly appalling)_.

He has never cared for chess until now. It is more fascinating and more frustrating than he expected, and this surprises him.

He observes for three more games and fifty-two minutes. Already, there is a pattern building up in his head, made up of black and white wood pieces whose names he doesn't even know, but whose potential he understands. He also knows that despite having played for years, these men with their calloused hands have glimpsed less of the pattern than he has.

It makes him feel wonderful, until black pushes a one-of-eight piece up, and for an incomprehensible reason white captures it _on the square behind_. He is angry, then, because he can't get the pattern right if he doesn't know all the rules.

"Shouldn't that be illegal?" he asks, trying to sound inquisitive, but it comes out more like a challenge.

The men start at the sound. They glance at each other, and the friendly one explains, "It's called an _en passant_. It only works immediately after moving a pawn two squares forward. Then the opponent can capture that pawn with his own pawn, as if it had moved only one square forward."

_What a ridiculous rule_, Sherlock thinks, but there is a pattern of thought in his head glowing with his new-found knowledge. A pawn.

"Only pawns?"

"Yeah."

"What's this called, then?" he says, carelessly plucking the pieces off the board and clearing a space to demonstrate the move that he saw an hour ago, when the first impossible move was made.

The move, as it turns out, is castling, and in a similar manner he learns the names of the pieces - _kingqueenrookbishopknightpawn_, each name with its place in the pattern. He learns of promotion and of check and mate. He learns the man's name, Lestrade, and somehow this fits the pattern as well.

"Would you like to play?" Lestrade says kindly.

Sherlock's fingers curl around his pieces.

When Mycroft comes to take him home, Sherlock's thoughts are a glorious hum of victory; a triumph told in algebraic notation, black and white.


	2. f4 exf4

A/N: Apologies for bad writing ethic, and thank you very, very much for the comments.

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_2. f4 exf4_

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"One day," Mycroft says, "It won't be enough."

Mycroft is a busybody. Sherlock's room is littered with paper and messily scribbled diagrams, rough sketches of his thoughts. There is no visible floor to speak of, which, given the expanse of Sherlock's room, explains both Mycroft's concern and his position at the doorway. Sherlock's newfound passion is fast turning into an obsession, falling hard and fast and worry-inducing because the crash will be inevitable, spectacular and intolerable. So while Mycroft takes it upon himself to caution Sherlock of appropriate distance from his experiments, he happens to stand in the optimal position for Sherlock to slam the door shut with maximum theatrical effect.

Which Sherlock does. The loose papers near the door whirl up and flutter down from the force of his resentment; Sherlock snatches one and viciously tears it apart. He chucks the pieces towards the door.

Mycroft is right, of course. Mycroft has played chess before. Nothing will be enough for the both of them, not chess, not the violin, not ruling the world. (It is so childish a ambition that he could almost mock Mycroft for it - almost, because with Mycroft, success was a distinct possibility.)

On the other hand, Sherlock has a pattern refusing deletion in his mind, and chess is a good enough distraction as any.

"There are more possible chess games than there are atoms in the known universe, Mycroft," he replies tersely, crossing the room to reach a fresh stack of paper. Pencils, where did he put the pencils?

"You and I both know chess doesn't work that way."

It is a particularly unwelcome facet of their relationship: Mycroft can always be counted on to deviate from the instructed purpose of his visit (playing the message boy; his original purpose is always to pry) and therefore infuriate Sherlock with detestably accurate remarks.

Sherlock takes a sheet of paper and scars slow, deliberate lines across its surface. He would open the door just to slam it in Mycroft's face, but that would require effort, so he slides the paper under the door instead.

"Really, Sherlock," he hears Mycroft sigh as he deciphers the writing. "Such language does so upset Mummy."

Sherlock says it out loud, this time.

Mycroft sensibly ignores this. "If I may remind you of the date, you will find that next week you are expected to receive your gifts amiably and without offending Mummy's guests. Please actually make an effort to do so."

"Ha," Sherlock says flatly. "Goodbye."

When Mycroft leaves, Sherlock retrieves thirty-two more squares of paper from the stack. He shades each one meticulously, a full rich coat of silver-black graphite arranged tenderly on the carpeting. He watches as his chessboard floor gleams and begins, and he smiles.


	3. Bc4 Qh4

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_3. Bc4 Qh4+_

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The package is hefty, covered in crinkled brown wrappings and obviously conceals a large book. There is a note attached: _Do not upset Mummy. Merry Christmas._

Sherlock frowns. Judging by previous calculations, the parcel should have taken a week to arrive, but only three days had passed since he'd had his last confrontation with Mycroft. But Mycroft's burgeoning influence is not Sherlock's problem right now - his mind is restless, and Sherlock hates to be bored. He peels off the packaging in layers, sweeps the mess on the floor and turns to examine his present.

It is a single, massive slab, easily three inches thick and bound in a hard black cover: _Chess: 5334 Problems, Combinations Games_. It trembles in his pale arms (_at least five and a half pounds_, thinks Sherlock). He carries it delicately to his room and drops it on the floor with a loud thud.

Settling down next to it, Sherlock fingers the spine, and reads.

The pages turn with a wonderfully crisp sound, and he drinks in the mate-in-ones like warm tea. They slip into his mind easily, three hundred and five newly acquired weaponry for use on the board. Except these knives are too crude or too thin and too _easy_ to mangle with and he almost deletes them out of sheer spite for Mycroft and his boredom inducing ways, until he finds, grudgingly, that attempts to do so simply do not work; the pattern sings and captures and resonates within them all, crude mate-in-ones or not.

It therefore comes as a shock and an utter delight when the three hundred and sixth puzzle makes him think for all of fifty seconds.

He stares at it for ages before understanding: _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. _There is no piece that can deliver mate except for the rook; the rook is blocked by the king; the king cannot move except to castle. The answer is castling.

Sherlock laugh is high and clear. Number three hundred and seven is easy now - the ridiculous answer made simple by pure logic, an _en passant_ that finishes the collection. The pattern glows in praise. Sherlock keeps the knowledge of these two knives carefully, and moves on.

At the party the next week, Sherlock gracefully accedes to Mummy's request that he play the violin. His mind is filled with music and darting pieces, patterns, rhythm, and when the mail brings three new books a week later, Sherlock is already using the first as a chair.


	4. Kf1 b5

A/N: Merry Christmas! I am compelled to apologise for bad writing and for lousy update schedules, both in the past and in the future. Thank you kindly for the reviews!

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_4. Kf1 b5_

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Manners are not Sherlock's strong point. Thus, when Sherlock combs the house demanding all manner of people to stop immediately, whatever _boring _and _unimportant_ task that are doing, to play a game of chess, he discovers that (a) half the people do not, in fact, know how to move the pieces, while (b), the other half lie blatantly to his face to get out of it. Mostly, he discovers that calling potential chess rivals 'ignorant, brainless masses' does not actually gain him a potential chess rival.

What it does gain him, however, is a severe lecture from Mummy for his language, while he sulks and protests and eventually promises not to irritate the gardener while he is holding a very large pair of shears.

"Why don't you ask Mycroft?" Mummy suggests, and Sherlock's mouth compresses into a hard line.

"Mycroft," explains Sherlock, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "is a pompous lump of lard. He wouldn't play me even if I asked nicely."

"We just had a conversation about your language," she says sternly, "and shouldn't you at least give it a try?"

"No."

"You haven't even asked him."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"I don't want to lose, alright?" he scowls, embarrassed. "At least not without a fair fight. And it wouldn't be fair, not when I haven't played a hundredth of the games that Mycroft has. I need more experience."

Mummy's face softens. "So not Mycroft, then."

Sherlock shakes his head mutely, and Mummy sighs. "I'm sure at least one of our extensive staff would be an adequate sparring partner. Here's what I want you to do. Recall your shouting spree, and ask to play those whom you think most likely to have some ability. Ask them politely. Do not insult them. If they agree, good. Failing that, do not sulk."

"I want you to make a list of five candidates, and I want you to follow them around as they work," Mummy continues, "unless it involves something dangerous by ordinary standards - no, Sherlock, _don't_ look at me like that, I've lectured you on this three times in the past month, you will not upset me again. I want you to make note of their mental capacity and anything potentially scandalous about their actions. After a week, you will ask them again, also politely. Listen closely: you are_ not_ allowed to blackmail them. If they still refuse, you will report to me with your findings and results. I will do the blackmailing. Is that understood?"

Sherlock nods.

"Good boy," Mummy says cheerfully. "Mycroft's old chess books are in storage somewhere. I'll have them sent to your room."

Sherlock flings his arms around Mummy's waist. "Thank you," he says sincerely, and then he is gone.


	5. Bxb5 Nf6

A/N: I figure Sherlock would be really good at chess, but not _that_ good, so there you go.

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_5. Bxb5 Nf6_

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And then one day it is not enough.

One day he finishes all the books he can fit into his room and into his brain without going mad; the same ideas and the same thoughts and the same tedious truths going round and round in his head (_like a teddy bear_, thinks Sherlock desperately), and everything is old and boring and done done done; he closes his eyes and opens them and all he can see is dizzying black and white all over his room, the pieces he used to cradle in his mind slowly choking him to death, and the pattern is a spider web of worn ancient paths his mind has taken too well and too often until it's all he can see and it's killing him, this not-seeing. Sherlock stumbles out of his room and into Mycroft's without knocking, without seeing.

This is what Sherlock does not see in Mycroft's room: black or white. This is such a relief that he just stands, for full minutes, looking at the shades of beige and navy that is Mycroft's ceiling. He stands until his neck begins to ache, and he looks down to meet Mycroft's eyes.

"Better?" Mycroft asks, gently, standing at his side.

Sherlock nods. He doesn't resist when Mycroft pulls him close. Mycroft smells faintly of ink and sweat, and Sherlock's mouth twists into a smile.

"I can't see," he whispers into Mycroft's shoulder.

"What?"

"It's all the same, and I can't see anything new. It's terrifying."

Mycroft holds Sherlock at arms length, and his gaze is piercing. "It's been more than a year. What brought this on?"

Sherlock thinks about lying, then doesn't. "I finished another book. Everything is the same, they're glitter-wrapped puzzles deceitful and monotonous at their core, they must be, because-" he pauses, and swallows. "I couldn't solve a puzzle. I spent _thirty minutes _on it, and I still couldn't figure it out. And then I did. It wasn't difficult, just- different."

Mycroft narrows his eyes. "Different."

"Yes, different," Sherlock scowls, recovering his usual animosity, "There was a kingside attack going on and White was to mate, and the answer was to retreat the rook. From its new position it would be able to reach the king from the other side and checkmate in another two moves, and this manoeuvre was unstoppable. It was impossible and unthinkable, except it wasn't. I didn't see it."

"But you did."

"Not fast enough. I shouldn't have taken as long if I had. My brain is atrophying, and I've surrounded myself with puzzles that hedge my mind and stop me from remembering how to think."

Mycroft sighs. "I told you so."

Sherlock doesn't quite know how to respond to that. "That is the most childish thing I have ever heard you say."

"Regardless, I did warn you. But you are not tired of chess yet, Sherlock. You are tired of the chess you know, formed by your limited experience - and you should not be afraid of something new."

"I am not _afraid_."

Mycroft genuinely smiles. "No, I suppose you ran into my room after failing to solve a puzzle because you were compelled to share the happy news."

"I solved the puzzle, Mycroft," growls Sherlock.

"Yes, yes you did. What about Victor?" asks Mycroft, before Sherlock can protest at his tone. Sherlock's face immediately sours."What _about_Victor?" he counters, and folds his arms roughly.

"Aren't the two of you still sparring partners? Or is he already tired of you? I would have thought he had more sense than that, with an ELO above 2100."

"Victor is fine."

"Then why not go to him? Why come to me?"

Sherlock slumps. "He- I beat him. I don't think he's going to help me, if he can't see anything new either."

This was news. If Sherlock had progressed to the point where there was no rival sufficient to preoccupy himself with, drastic measures had to be taken. Mycroft taps his chin thoughtfully.

"I see. Well. Most chess puzzles are singularly repetitive, which is why I've taken to composing my own. I understand if you want nothing more to do with chess, but if you want something more challenging," he says, searching for and retrieving a journal from his desk, "you may have a look."

Sherlock cannot suppress the flicker of shock across his features. Mycroft smiles, and hands the journal over. "Happy reading, Sherlock. Once you've got through it, we'll play."

A fierce light enters Sherlock's eyes. "I'm going to beat you," he promises.

Mycroft's smile widens. "I'd like to see you try."

"Challenge accepted," Sherlock says, straightening to full height. He strides back to his room, his posture perfect, until he collapses on his bed in a dramatic laugh. _Chess with Mycroft_, he thinks giddily, might be just the thing to set his mind on fire.


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